Brenda Joyce (34 page)

The enemy was within striking distance of Kildrummy Castle.

“Why does he leave us here?” Isabella asked, ashen.

Margaret took her hand. There was hardly any conversation in the hall that morning. How could there be? Ever since they had heard that de Valence’s great army was in Perth, an army of thousands upon thousands of well-trained soldiers and knights, the court had become stricken. And the queen was not present. She was behind closed doors with Sir Nigel, his other foremost knights, Marjorie and Bruce’s sisters. Clearly a great discussion was afoot.

The court was going to have to flee, Margaret thought uneasily. They could not remain there, with so few stores left, awaiting an attack from de Valence.

She had little doubt that Sir Guy remained one of Aymer’s commanders. Just as she felt certain he was chafing to be let loose upon Kildrummy—upon her.

“You are so quiet!” Isabella accused. “Can you not at least pretend to be confident of our fates?”

Margaret trembled, a scant instant from screaming at her. Instead, she said calmly, “It is time to grow up. We are in grave danger and I have no desire to pretend otherwise. There are fifty knights here to defend us. Aymer de Valence has an army of six thousand men. His knights are the best in the land. And—” she paused, now perspiring “—Sir Guy is with him. I am certain. And if we are captured, he will seek me out.”

Isabella gasped. “I am so thoughtless!” She embraced her, hard. “God, he will punish you for leaving him. But perhaps he doesn’t know you had an affair with Alexander?”

Margaret closed her eyes. Perhaps Alexander’s having left her would save her from Sir Guy’s rage in the end. But she did not think so.

Suddenly the doors to the hall burst open, as if rammed by a siege engine. Several women screamed. Sir Neil ran inside, followed by five of his men. He was ashen.

Margaret lifted her skirts and began running to him. “What has happened?”

He had been racing toward the doors at the room’s other end, beyond which were the queen and Sir Nigel. He reversed course and ran directly to her, seizing her by both arms. “Bruce’s army has been massacred!”

Margaret felt the room tilt wildly. “What?”

“There has been a terrible massacre at Methven,” Sir Neil was shouting.

And in that moment, all she could think of was, had Alexander survived?

The women began crying out, shouting questions, someone even screaming that Bruce was dead! Margaret looked into Sir Neil’s panicked eyes as the doors behind them opened. She heard the queen, the women, and Sir Nigel racing to them.

“What has happened?” Christina cried. “Is Rob dead?”

“The king lives!” Sir Neil shouted over the pandemonium. He appeared ready to weep. “But he was ambushed at Methven and there, his army was slaughtered like sleeping sheep!”

Margaret could not breathe as Sir Neil released her, panting in distress. Sir Nigel took his arm. “Calm yourself and tell me what has happened.”

Sir Neil nodded, a tear now sliding down his face. “Bruce arrived at Perth and rode directly to the city gates, where he challenged Aymer de Valence. He demanded that Aymer either come out and fight or surrender. De Valence said it was too late to go to battle then, but they would begin the fight the next morning.”

Sir Nigel nodded grimly. The queen was stiff and unmoving, as were her ladies. No one in the hall was moving—the tension and fear were too great.

Sir Neil swiped at the single tear upon his face. “Bruce retired his army to Methven for the night. Some of his men were sent to forage for fodder, others told to cook, others had disarmed and were sleeping. And then the English army descended upon them.”

Christina choked. Mary put her arm around her, as ashen.

“They were ambushed, and a terrible melee ensued,” Sir Neil said. “They were mostly asleep, mostly unarmed, and outnumbered. Bruce was unhorsed three times! Sir Christopher saved him from capture.” He looked at Christina briefly. Then he turned to Sir Nigel. “A massacre ensued.”

Sir Nigel was as white as everyone else. “But the king survived?”

“Atholl, your brother Edward and Neil Campbell managed to defend him. They escaped into the forest.”

“Oh, my God,” Christina said. “What of the others?”

“Most were murdered. A few were captured in the field—but Sir Christopher escaped.”

Christina began to cry. Mary held her tight, upright. She was crying, too. Marjorie was white.

“What of Alexander?” Margaret whispered.

Sir Neil whirled. “I do not know if he was captured, if he escaped or if he is one of the dead.”

Margaret began to shake so badly, she knew she might collapse. Isabella took her hand.

Sir Nigel was so stricken, his nose was red. “Are you telling us that Bruce’s entire army was slaughtered? That over four thousand men are dead?”

“Perhaps a hundred men escaped into the forests.”

Margaret staggered blindly away. It was over—and Alexander could be dead.

Her fists clenched. But hadn’t she known that Robert Bruce could not go up against England and win? Yet he had dragged Alexander into the damned war, and now Bruce lived, but she did not know if Alexander did!

“There is more, Sir Nigel,” Sir Neil said hoarsely.

How could there be more? Margaret turned back to them and saw that the queen, who was so stoic all of the time, was as stricken as everyone else. Elisabeth was fighting the same tears of horror and anguish as everyone else.

“King Edward has issued a royal proclamation.” Sir Neil cleared his throat. “Every wife and every sister, every daughter amongst us, is as guilty of treason as we are.”

Gasps sounded.

“They must be hunted down,” he continued, now sounding shaken as he glanced at Margaret, “but the punishment will not be hanging.”

The queen cried out. Marjorie and Christina seized her, to keep her from collapsing. Margaret gasped, “How will King Edward punish us?”

“By royal decree, any man may now rob, rape and murder you.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A
TERRIFIC
NOISE
awoke her.

Margaret was suddenly awake. It took her a moment to realize where she was. Since the news of the massacre at Methven, the sleeping arrangements had changed. She had been invited to share the queen’s chamber—as had Isabella. For she had risen in the queen’s esteem. As for Isabella, she suspected that the queen had been instructed by her husband to keep her close.

It was the middle of the night. She was instantly aware of the commotion below the royal bedchamber. Margaret froze, her heart pounding with fright. She could hear men shouting and racing into the great room.

“Are we being attacked?” Isabella cried, seizing Margaret’s hand in their shared pallet.

Someone held a taper aloft. Margaret glanced across the space between her bed and the closest adjacent one. Christina held the candle high, Mary beside her. Their gazes were wide with fright.

And Elisabeth, terribly ashen, was on her feet, Marjorie helping her don a warm mantle. Marjorie’s movements, which were usually gentle, were rushed.

Margaret’s mind raced frantically. Was Aymer de Valence attacking?

She heard a great many voices raised in urgent conversation. What she did not hear was the ring of swords, or the cries of soldiers in battle. It was clear the others heard the same and were realizing that they were not being attacked.

A sharp, urgent banging sounded upon the queen’s doors. Elisabeth cried out loudly, “Enter.”

The doors burst open and Sir Nigel stood there. “You must come below, Elisabeth,” he said quickly.

But she was already crossing the room, Christina and Mary with her. They vanished into the hall outside with Sir Nigel.

Margaret quickly got up, lighting another taper. Isabella also slid from the bed. Marjorie joined them and they exchanged glances. “Who could it be—in the middle of the night?” Isabella whispered.

“I don’t know.” Margaret took up a plaid and draped it about her shoulders. She could not imagine who had come to rouse the queen at midnight, nor did she think the news good. She hurried out with the two women, everyone silent. The hall outside the chamber was brightly illuminated.

She led the way, hurrying down the stairs. The conversation in the great hall was now muted. When she reached its threshold, she faltered.

And then her heart exploded.

His back was to her, but Alexander stood with the queen.

Alexander was at Kildrummy; Alexander was alive!

Tears arose, blurring her vision. Isabella seized her hand. “He lives,” she whispered.

Margaret nodded, speechless and beyond relief.
Alexander lived.

But Alexander spoke rapidly and urgently. The queen listened attentively, her expression grim. Bruce’s sisters stood with her, as did Sir Nigel and Sir Neil. Another man she did not recognize was also with them, but he resembled Bruce and she imagined he was another one of his brothers. Everyone was frighteningly grim.

Her relief and joy were short-lived. Why had he come? She stared at the women in their nightclothes, the men armed with sword and dagger. Alexander and the other nobleman had come from the war—they had come from the forests, where they had been hiding since Methven.

“What news could he be bringing?” Isabella whispered. “The queen looks frightened!”

Elisabeth did look frightened, Margaret thought. And in another moment or two, Alexander would see her. Her relief and excitement changed instantly. She had not seen him in three months, and he had never answered her letter.

She no longer feared the news he was bringing. Instead, trepidation assailed her. What would happen when he turned around to face her?

“What are you going to do?” Isabella whispered in her ear.

She could not even look at her friend. And she did not know what she would do—or what she should do.

The queen was now talking to him, and then Sir Nigel was saying something. As Bruce’s brother spoke, Alexander turned and glanced at her.

She stiffened as their gazes met.

He did not smile at her. For an instant he simply stared, his expression impossible to read. Then the queen spoke to him and he turned his attention back to her.

“I don’t know what I will do,” Margaret finally said to Isabella. And anguish began—anguish she must not allow to arise.

“I wonder why he is here. Maybe he has come for you,” she said.

Margaret finally glanced at her. “He is here on the king’s business, Isabella.”

Isabella’s eyes popped and she jerked hard on Margaret’s sleeve.

Margaret turned. Alexander was striding toward her.

She froze. She no longer saw the queen and her women, who were having a sharp discussion with the three men. She was no longer aware of Isabella. As he approached, it felt as if her entire future was hanging from a thread.

Alexander paused before her. “Lady Margaret,” he said politely.

Dismay warred with hope. “Alexander,” she whispered.

His gaze slipped over her. “I was pleased when I learned that ye had fled Castle Fyne.”

She somehow nodded, when she wanted to blurt out so much, all at once. “You are well,” she managed to respond.

“I am as well as a man can be in these times,” he said.

“I am so sorry. The news has been so terrible,” she whispered, referring to the massacre of Methven.

His eyes flickered. “Many good men died. Other good men were captured. But the king lives.”

“And you are alive,” she said.

“Did ye doubt it?”

“When we received the news, no one knew if you had survived, escaped, been captured.” Moisture began to arise in her eyes.

“I am not so easy to capture or kill.”

She blinked furiously, suddenly recalling the vow he had made to her—that if she was waiting for him, he would always return from war. She wondered if he recalled it.

“I was also pleased to learn that William survived,” he said.

He was being so careful now—so polite—as if they had never been lovers. “William was badly hurt—had I not tended him, he probably would have died.”

He nodded, studying her. “Then I am glad ye went to him.” He hesitated, glancing briefly at the queen and her circle. “I am glad ye are well, Margaret.”

Her heart skidded as their gazes met and locked.

“We have matters to discuss, but now is not the time. We leave immediately, as soon as the sun comes up.”

Alarm began. “Where are we going? What has happened?”

“Yer no longer safe here at Kildrummy, not since King Edward declared the women outlaws. Bruce wants the queen and her women with him.”

“But he hides in the forest!”

“He is now at Aberdeen, and I am to take ye there.”

Would they be better off—and safer—if with Bruce? His small army was surely greater than the handful of knights now guarding them at Kildrummy. She looked up fearfully and found Alexander staring far too closely.

“No woman should have to run and hide like an outlaw.” Anger darkened his eyes. “Gather up yer belongings. Dawn comes swiftly.” He turned to go.

She seized his arm, surprising them both. Touching him brought back so many memories, which should, perhaps, be illicit now. “Did you receive my letter, Alexander?” The moment she had spoken, she wished she had not.

“Aye.” His gaze seemed wary now. “I meant to respond, but these three months have been difficult.”

She released him. He had not found the time to write a line or two in reply? She did not believe it. And hadn’t she already known that his lack of a reply
was
the reply?

He nodded at her, turned and strode back to the queen and her closest advisors. Margaret stared after him.

Everything had changed. They were no longer lovers—it felt instead as if they had become strangers. She blinked back more tears.

“Thank God Bruce has sent for us,” Isabella whispered.

Margaret had forgotten her presence. Now, the other woman put her arm around her. And for that, Margaret was grateful.

* * *

T
HE
FIRST
THING
Margaret saw was Bruce’s red-and-yellow banner waving high in the sunny blue sky above his tent.

It was a bit after noon. Bruce had made camp just outside the city’s walls, and Margaret was surprised to see that his army was larger than she had expected after what she had heard about the massacre at Methven. Tents covered the grassy slopes surrounding the city. Their warhorses grazed freely among sheep and cows. The city gates were open, and men and women were coming and going freely. The scene seemed pleasant and almost gay.

But there was nothing pleasant about the mighty Robert Bruce being reduced to a king in hiding, she thought grimly.

The queen’s cavalcade slowed as it approached the camp, the queen riding at the forefront with Bruce’s two brothers, Sir Nigel and Sir Edward—the man she had not recognized that night alongside Alexander. Christina, Mary and Marjorie were behind her, several dozen knights alongside and behind the group.

Alexander rode a bit ahead of her. He had continually changed his position, sometimes going to the front ranks to speak with Sir Nigel and Sir Edward, at other times dropping back to ride with the rear guard. She felt certain, knowing him as she did, that he had scouts positioned along their route to make certain they could pass safely through the countryside.

He had ridden past her once. They had simply gazed at one another. The moment had felt significant, when all they had done was exchange stares.

Sir Nigel was helping the queen dismount. Bruce came striding out of his tent, and as he did, his men began to cheer. “King Robert! King Robert!”

Along the city walls, the cheering was taken up by the men and women watching the camp. “King Robert of Scotland!”

Isabella had been riding alongside her, and Margaret glanced at her. “So he remains beloved, at least here in the north.”

Isabella did not answer and Margaret took a closer look at her set face. She was not happy.

She turned back to Bruce and saw him embracing Elisabeth, the way a husband hugs his wife after a long period of separation. Elisabeth actually smiled at him, and touched his cheek, a simple caress.

Margaret glanced back at Isabella, who appeared furious. “She is his wife,” Margaret stressed.

Isabella wisely did not answer, but her color was high.

Suddenly a woman began crying out. “John! John!”

Margaret saw Marjorie running across the camp. Atholl was rushing toward her from the other side of the camp, his arms open.

She watched them embrace. Atholl held her, hard, for a long time, and then they kissed as if they were lovers, not man and wife.

Feeling so happy for them, she no longer believed Atholl a spy for King Edward. His life had been at risk at Methven. He would have fled to the English ranks during the massacre, had he been their agent.

As she watched them hugging one another, Margaret realized she was being closely watched, as well.

Alexander was staring at her. She felt her cheeks flame. Did he know that she yearned to be embraced in just such a manner?

He rode his warhorse over to her. “Two tents have been made for the women.” He slid from his horse, handing the reins to a young Highland lad, and approached, reaching up for her.

Her heart continued to race. He was going to realize that he still affected her in a great many ways. Margaret let him help her dismount, and then he turned to aid Isabella. He gestured to them both to follow. Margaret fell silently into step behind him with Isabella, who clearly was reluctant. Margaret knew she wished to veer away and attempt to see Bruce. She so hoped Isabella would behave sensibly now.

She gazed at Alexander’s broad shoulders, at his unruly dark hair. She hated the awkwardness between them. Inhaling, she said, “Do you know how long we will be here?”

He turned and paused, allowing her to fall into step with him. They walked past a large cook fire and several tents. Young boys were playing with a stick and a ball of rope. “No, I dinna ken. But Bruce plans to send the women to the Orkney Islands.”

Margaret gasped. She had no wish to live in the Orkney Islands!

Her dismay must have shown, because he said, “He needs to keep the queen safe, Lady Margaret. His sister Isabel is the Dowager Queen of Norway. He has already sent emissaries ahead.”

Margaret’s head began to ache. She wished to remain behind—the Orkney Islands were so far away from Alexander.

He said, “That tent is for ye and six other ladies.”

She did not look at it. “Will I be forced to go to the Orkney Islands?”

“Where else could ye go? ’Tis no secret that ye have joined Queen Elisabeth, defying Buchan. All of Scotland knows ye refused to marry Sir Guy when ye ran from Castle Fyne.”

He was right. If the queen went, taking her ladies with her, she would have to go with them. She had nowhere else to go. “I am afraid, Alexander.”

“I ken. Margaret...” He stopped.

“What? If you have something to say, please, say it!” she cried.

“I have so many questions,” he said sharply. “And even now, I dinna like it when yer afraid.”

What did that mean? She knew she must stop being emotional. But she wanted to cry—and rush into his arms—and demand her own answers. “I will answer all your questions—you must merely ask them,” she managed to answer.

He took her arm and guided her away from the tent, toward the outskirts of the camp. Margaret realized Isabella had already wandered away from them. She did not look back to see where she was, as she could guess. “I do not like this awkwardness,” she said. “How can we have become strangers?”

He glanced at her as they approached a pair of majestic fir trees. “It has been three months since we last spoke.”

“I wrote you a letter. You did not reply.” She cringed at hearing her own desperation!

“I dinna ken what yer asking me, Margaret,” he said abruptly.

“You were fond of me. You once wished to marry me. Is there another woman you wish to wed—one with a real dowry?” She could not look away from him now.

“No. We’re at war,” he said, quite unnecessarily.